She rose with none of her customary energy and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Whitlock let his tea grow cold, and sat with the letter in his hand, mentally vowing that he would find a way to tell Elizabeth Hodges that she was much more than a penniless housekeeper.

That discussion would take some thought and planning. A lot of thought and planning in fact, given that Whitlock was supposed to take ship in little more than a fortnight.

He smoothed out Her Grace of Rothhaven’s letter and began reading.

“I want you to know something,” Rothhaven said, as he and Constance were shown to a private dining room at the Duck and Goose.

“I want the jury to know many things,” Constance replied. “For instance, if they find against you, I will have Quinn and Jane ruin the lot of them unto the nineteenth generation.” She would do no such thing, of course. Reverend Shaw detested high-handed aristocrats for reasons, and a tendency to abuse wealth and power for personal satisfaction was probably at the top of his list.

And in that much, oddly enough, Constance agreed with him.

Rothhaven held her chair for her as the serving maid closed the door. Luncheon was already laid out on the table, but Constance had no appetite.

Her husband leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I loved being able to tell the world that you are my duchess. I love that you sent for Alexander and Helen. I love that you put that vile excuse for a physician in his place. I love you.”

Constance rose and wrapped her arms around him. “I love you too, so very much, and I am furious on your behalf.”

He stroked her hair, and some of the ire drained out of her. “We shall contrive, Your Grace,” he murmured. “That business with Her Grace of Walden fainting was splendid.”

“I think Jane enjoyed using the fiction of female frailty to control an entire courtroom. She was very convincing, wasn’t she?”

“Walden was convincing. Let’s eat, shall we?”

He was so calm, so at ease when Constance was ready to rip up at all of York, and most especially at Lady Phoebe Philpot, who had no doubt authored this entire drama.

“I could manage some bread and butter,” Constance said, resuming her seat. “A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss either.”

“This is not the prisoner’s last meal, Constance.” Rothhaven sounded amused, which exceeded the bounds of savoir-faire by several leagues.

“Today has been far more than merely trying, Rothhaven.”